After years of abuse by her husband, Boca Babe Harriet Horowitz made a split-second decision that ended her $100 manicures and $20,000 shopping sprees forever, and earned her the nickname Dirty Harriet. Defender of the downtrodden.
But why do her cases keep leading back to the soul-sucking life she's left behind? Because where there's glitz, there's scandal, and some lunatic's killing off the only good people left in Boca Raton (the clergy). This time Harriet's got backup. Lior Ben Yehudahard-body personal trainer and ex-commandoa younger man commited to helping her out. A man whose flirtatious advances Harriet is finding increasingly hard to resist
Once again, it's up to Dirty Harriet to make good in a town gone bad.
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.37(d)|
Read an Excerpt
As weddings go, it was a little
unorthodox. And ahead of myself.
Let me begin by stating immediately and emphatically that it wasn't my wedding. Please, that's not gonna happen (again). At thirty-nine, I've been happily widowed for four years since shooting my abusive husband in self-defense. That act of freedom really made my day and earned me the nickname Dirty Harriet.
My real name is Harriet Horowitz. The wedding in reference was that of my best buds, Chuck and Enrique. Now, seeing as these are two members of the male persuasion, some people would say it wasn't a real wedding. To them I would say, "Get a life!" Love doesn't get any more real than what these two had going.
Okay, so our beautiful, bountiful burg of Boca Raton and our great state of Florida doesn't bestow legal recognition on gay unions. As far as I'm concerned, that's a plus. After all, it was the law that had sanctified my own unholy sham of a marriage. And it was the law that had done shit for me when my husband beat the shit out of me.
So the law, rules and regulations don't mean a whole lot to me. Truth and justice do. That's where my inner vigilante comes in. But more on that later.
Chuck and Enrique's love was true and just, which is why I was there that April Sunday standing up for them as best human in their commitment ceremony. I was standing, to be precise, at the altar of the Church of the Gender-Free God, waiting for the grooms to walk down the aisle.
In honor of the occasion, I had ditched my daily uniform of black leggings, black tank top, riding boots and leathers when I dismounted my trusty steedmy 2003 hundredth anniversary Harley
DIRTY HARRIET RIDES AGAIN 9
Hugger. I wore a rented Vera Wang floor-length silver gown, matched by four-inch sandals and shoulder-length silver earrings. I'd had my normally wild dark hair blown out, and it hung down my back in long silky perfection. My green eyes were fully lined and mascaraed, and my normally bare, raw nails were painted Princess Pearl. Damned if I didn't look like my former incarnation of myself a Boca Babe ne plus ultra.
What's a Boca Babe, you ask? Well, that's a twopart question. First of all, the town of Boca is located between Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach and has been called the Beverly Hills of the East. Just like that other place, Boca's got its balmy breezes, plentiful palm trees, mind-boggling mansions, serious shopping and beaucoup bucks. So much money that Boca ranks as the second wealthiest municipality in Palm Beach County, just behind the island of Palm Beach, which is in a whole different class. Think Monte Carlo and St. Tropez. Or, Palm Beach is old money elite and Boca Raton, tacky nouveau riche. And most of Boca-ites' new money seems to come from some pretty shady dealings.
Now as for Boca Babes, here are some clues: If it costs you $200 to get your hair cut and another $250 to get it colored, you might be a Boca Babe. If you don't talk to anyone who doesn't own anything made by Prada, then you just might be a Boca Babe. If your boobs are a size 34DD and your butt is a size zero, then you are probably a Boca Babe. If you live in a house the size of a jumbo jet hangar, then you are likely a Boca Babe. But if you don't have a husband who's a doctor, lawyer, investment banker or developer raking in over a million a year, then you're definitely not a Boca Babe. And if you're all of the above but have hit the big 4-0, you're no longer a Boca Babeyou're now a BOTOX Babe.
I shed my Boca Babe persona like a snake shedding its skin the day I shed (okay, shot) my husband, and I've never looked back. Now I'm a hog-riding, ass-kicking, swamp-dwelling private eye making a fine living busting the very people I used to wine and dine with. So my temporary reversion to Babeness gives you some sense of the supreme sacrifice I was making for my friends.
But even though I'd transformed myself for the day, a part of the real me still came through, like the rose tattoo on my left boob that peeked out of my low-cut dress, thanks to the strapless push-up corset that I'd spent a small fortune on. Between that and a pair of my old Gucci high heels, I was in some serious discomfort. After all, I wasn't 21 anymore. This whole hottie act does not get easier with time. I was ready for this show to get on the road so I could disrobe.
The proceeding seemed to be taking its sweet time, though. So as I waited, I gazed out at the guests. Right up front was Enrique's mama from Panama, decked out in a lime-green chiffon gown with a matching broad-rimmed hat. She was absolutely beaming at the prospect of her baby boy finally settling down. As Chuck's family had long since disowned him due to his perceived sin against God and Nature, his surrogates were there. There was my mother, Stella Celeste Kucharski Horowitz Fleischer Steinblum Fishbein Rosenberg, who had recently unofficially adopted Chuck as her honorary son, which made him, I guess, my honorary brother. Mom was all gussied up, as usual, in a butter-yellow cocktail dress with her hair perfectly coiffed in a helmet around her face. She'd beamed with approval when she'd arrived at the church and seen my reclaimed Boca Babe look. I guess she figured my titty-baring getup would finally snag me a man to replace her late, unlamented son-in-law. Of course, she had failed to consider that I had no interest in a replacement, and even if I had, many of the guys at this gathering were batting for the other team.
Next to Mom sat her new squeeze, Leonard Goldblatt, in a white summer suit with a gray tie to complement his gray brush cut. They had met on a cruise a couple months previously. Leonard was a former CIA agent, and as such I'd initially had my suspicions about his intentions toward Mom. But then I'd actually met him and my guarded apprehension turned to grudging appreciation. Yeah, okay, maybe I'd been guilty of premature evaluation. But wouldn't you feel the same if your own mother's vulnerable feelings, and fortune, were at stake? As it had turned out, Leonard was good for my mother. But forget about that; the man was good for me. His relationship with his own grown children was of the supportive and noninterfering variety, and some of that had rubbed off on Mom.
On Leonard's other side was Boca's big-time benefactress, the Contessa von Phul, who sat regally, dressed in her usual Chanel suit and pearls, her sleek mahogany pageboy completing the picture of a perfect seventy-year-old BOTOX Babe. I'd recently solved a murder case for her, during which she'd met Chuck and Enrique and wangled an invite to the big event. Never far from her side, the contessa's Chihuahua, Coco, sat primly in her lap, all duded up in a pink rhinestone collar.
Next to the contessa was Guadalupe Lourdes Fatima Domingo. Lupe, as she was known, was a cultural anthropologist who also had had a role in the contessa's case, and in the process had become a good friend of mine. Today she wore a traditional Mexican embroidered dress and her salt-andpepper hair was elaborately swept up with multicolored ribbons. The outfit was an homage to her hometown heroine, the late artist Frida Kahlo.
Beyond the front row sat an assortment of Chuck and Enrique's friends and acquaintances, including their gay matchmaker, who savvily saw this event as a supreme marketing opportunity and brought along all his clients. There were also all the straight bad boy bikers from Chuck's maintenance shop, the Greasy Rider, and from the local biker bar, Hog Heaven; and all Enrique's coworkers from the Boca Beach Hilton, where he was the hotel dick, that is to say, the chief of security.
Outside, I heard the unmistakable rumble of Harleys. Ahhh the day's musical entertainment had arrived, in the form of the Holy Rollers Motorcycle Club and Gospel Choir, a group of five black drag queens whom I had met at the rehearsal dinner the previous evening.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This is an easy to read sort-of-detective story.
In southern Florida everyone assumed that Harriet Horowitz lived a great life as a wealthy socialite attending all the top parties of the rich and famous. That impression changed in an instant when unable to take her spouse¿s abuse any longer, Harriet shot and killed her husband in front of 500 witnesses. She was acquitted though the media dubbed her DIRTY HARRIET.---------------- Now she is a single private eye, who rides a motorcycle in the Everglades where she lives. The former Boca Raton babe attends the wedding of her two best friends, but someone kills the minister. She assumes it is a gay bashing incident since the bride and groom are males. The police suspect members of the Holy Rollers Motorcycle Club and Gospel Choir, but Harriet thinks otherwise. When a rabbi is murdered, her Israeli martial arts instructor, Lior Ben Yehuda becomes the prime suspect. DIRTY HARRIET knows the source of her lust would not have killed the religious leaders so she investigates.----------- Zany and definitely over the top, readers will welcome the exploits of Dirty Harriet as she rides the Everglades and the urban jungles of Southeastern Florida seeking to prove her friends and her fantasy lover are innocent. The story line is fast-paced and very amusing as Harriet¿s latest capers star a horde of eccentrics who make for a fun humorous jaunt.------- Harriet Klausner